“I could not obtain permission to enter any sooner; but, to make up for it, I am allowed to come every day, till—” He stopped.
“Till I give up the enjoyments of this place for those that await me when I leave it,” said George, with a bitter smile.—“Adelardi,” continued he, changing his tone, and rising abruptly, “can a friend like you come to me to-day with empty hands? Is it possible you have not divined my wants, and are here without bringing me the means of escaping my doom, and meeting death, which they have had the cruelty to refuse me?” He strode up and down his cell two or three times as if beside himself. “Answer me, then, Adelardi!” exclaimed he, in a violent manner. “Why have you not rendered me this, the greatest of services? In a similar position, you would have expected it of me, and I assure you it would not have been in vain.”
The marquis was not ignorant of the religious principles that should have inspired his reply, but he had long lost the habit of appealing to them. He therefore simply replied: “You know well, George, what you ask would have been impossible.”
“Ah! yes, I forgot.—It is just. They take precautions to prevent their victims from finding another way out of these walls than that opened by their murderers; but they do not consider all the resources of despair,” continued he, with agitation. “When a man is determined to die, they must be sharper than they are now to prevent him, and oblige him to accept the odious life they would inflict upon him.”
Adelardi allowed him without any interruption to give vent for some time to the despair that burdened his heart, but at last he turned to him with sudden firmness: “George, I have always found you calm and courageous till to-day, but now your language is unworthy of you.”
A slight flush rose to the prisoner's brow, and he resumed his seat. “You are right, my friend, I acknowledge. I am no longer what I was. I must indeed astonish you, for I no longer recognize myself.” He remained thoughtful for some moments, and then continued: “It is strange! for, after all, Adelardi, in saying that till now I never knew what fear was, or shrunk in the presence of danger or death, saying I had courage, was not laying claim [pg 606] to any extraordinary merit, for there are but few men who lack it. Yes, if any virtue fell to my lot, it was certainly that, it seems to me. Why, then, am I so weak to-day?—Courage,” repeated he, after a pause. “Is it true? Was it really courage, or was I merely brave, which seems to be another thing? What is the difference between them?”
“I know not,” replied the marquis, as if in a dream; “but there is a difference, certainly.”
Neither of them possessed the true key to the enigma; neither of them now thought of searching for it. But Adelardi, glad to see his friend's excitement somewhat allayed, continued the subject to which the conversation had led. Besides, he saw it would afford an opportunity of touching on a point he did not wish to introduce directly.
“No,” he resumed, “bravery and courage are not the same thing. What proves it is that the most timid woman can be as courageous as we when occasion requires it, and often more so.”
“Yes, I acknowledge it.”